


Victory Lies Beyond Their Spit And Scorn

by dr_zook



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Marriage of Hephaestus and Aphrodite (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Genre: Dionysos surely wonders why he left his dildo for THIS, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, Father issues, Mother Issues, Multi, non-graphic description of chopped-off genitals, the Marriage of Hephaestus and Aphrodite, what's there not to love about Greek mythology?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: There is a reason why sometimes farmers arm themselves with forks and clubs and cut foreigners' throats with scythes. Why betrayed husbands knife their wives' affairs. Why some maidens stalk the youth who are fleeing them.It's called love.Ferocious, ugly, all-consuming.
Relationships: Aphrodite/Hephaestus, Thetis/Eurynome (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Victory Lies Beyond Their Spit And Scorn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_alchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I hope you like a bit ~~how I mangled your fine prompts~~ what I did here! Happy Yuletide! ♥
> 
> The title is inspired by some lyrics from Bathory's [Dies Irae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvbi_-mudzM): 
> 
> _Even the heavens shall burn when we're gathered / Vicory lies beyond their spit and scorn_
> 
> Thanks to L. this is actually readable. Any remaining mistakes and questionmark-inducing blathering are mine.

There is a reason why sometimes farmers arm themselves with forks and clubs and cut foreigners' throats with scythes. Why betrayed husbands knife their wives' affairs. Why some maidens stalk the youth who are fleeing them.

It's called _love_.

Ferocious, ugly, all-consuming. And it's very far from sanity.

* * *

The first thing Hephaistos notes on his visitor, and for this he has to lift his gaze from the anvil, is the purple tunic flowing around strong ankles, embroidered with delicate gold and silver threads. The pelt of a panther or mountain lion is fasted around the shoulders, and pale arms wield a staff; its end is adorned with a pine cone. A wreath of leaves is crowning long, flowing tresses of dark hair. He smells of myrrh and the sweat of a traveller.

"Greetings, famed worker of many crafts," says the youthful looking visitor with a surprisingly resounding voice.

Hephaistos squints at him-- and continues hammering. Nothing can be important enough to make him waste an almost finished sword. His assistants have drawn themselves from the bellows, welcoming the interruption. Eventually he drops the blade into the salt water bucket and wipes his sooty hands. "Greetings, stranger," he huffs at last, maybe a bit impressed by his patience. "I don't think we‘ve met before. Who are you?"

The other smiles, broad and with glistening eyes. He stands even straighter now. "I am the Luxuriant, twice-born, and raging. The androgynous Eater of Raw Flesh. I am the Insewn, the wine-dark God of Tragedy."

Hephaistos stares at the dramatic flair. "You are Dionysos, son of Zeus." What on Earth is _he_ doing here?

Instantly his visitor's eyebrows shoot up, and pure delight pours out of him, his regal posture all but forgotten. "Yes, yes!" He grabs Hephaistos' upper arms and almost twirls him through the forge. "You‘ve heard of me!"

"Of course," Hephaistos says, slightly overwhelmed by the other's exuberance. One _must_ have heard of the many wars he has fought in the east. Of the sharp weapons wielded, the polished armor stripped from enemies. "What brings you here?" He has to grab his crutch to steady his stance.

"I was looking for you." Dionysos rearranges his cloak and the ivy of the wreath.

"What? Why?" They never had dealings before. Having been thrown out of the dwellings of the gods meant for Hephaistos to be forgotten by the Olympians.

"Your gift has arrived, Ingenious One," Dionysos says and points his staff upwards.

Hephaistos swallows. Most of the time his schemes are quite good, he must say. Rolling around new ideas and failed experiments in his mind, ruling out any kind of possible mishaps. Almost nothing beats that moment when things carefully constructed start to work exactly as calculated.

And there are other times, when disappointment and anger gnaw so much at him that courage is drowned out. Like today.

"The Queen got stuck to her throne, as it appears. The throne _you_ sent her," Dionysos elaborates, watching him closely. "They are offering a great prize for the one who frees her."

"And? Did you try already?"

Dionysos' smile is small but thorough. "No, as a fact I didn't. Never ever been there."

With a grunt Hephaistos sinks onto his bench, thankful for being able to stretch out his leg for a while.

"As you may know, the Queen isn't overly fond of me," Dionysos continues flatly and takes the stool near him. "She likes to define dynasty, doesn't she."

And isn't that true? Hephaistos sighs, "And now you want the prize? Sure you want to put yourself in her graces again."

"I don't beg for anything. She can rot on that throne, for all I care." Dionysos grips his staff tighter. "What I want is to be recognized as one of _them_. You cannot imagine what I went through for the last decades. I want nothing more than what I'm entitled to as Zeus' son! I am a god, too, and they need to be reminded."

Something is forming inside Hephaistos; it's an alloy of defiance, pride and yearning. "You," he has to clear his throat and start again. "You want to be recognized?"

"Yes." His guest leans the staff against the wall behind and hobbles closer on his stool. His eyes are both bright and dark, an unusual hue of shimmering grey. "And I think that makes two of us, am I right? That's why you force her to see you."

Hephaistos nods. Zeus' son is very clever, he likes that.

"I'm sure the sight of her on that throne is worth a little hike." A feral grin makes Dionysos' teeth gleam.

And maybe it's his heart sinking, maybe it's breakfast protesting, but Hephaistos feels dizzy.

Dionysos snaps with his fingers and a small, snub-nosed old man appears with a bow. "Silenos, bring us a skin," he says without looking at him. The man weasels off.

"Forgive me," Hephaistos says slowly. "I'm a bad host, for I am not used to guests." He scratches the hair beneath his cap. Did he ever have a visitor before? His mothers and their sisters don't count, he guesses. He enjoys making trinkets for them out of the pearls and shells and amber they bring. "I don't even have divine nectar for you." Because that's what the gods drink, right? He never had it himself.

Dionysos leans towards him, throwing an arm around Hephaistos' hunched shoulders. "My new-found brother, I have something even _better_."

* * *

Hephaistos cannot possibly remember the fall. He shouldn't, for that. He was so small then, innocent and crying for warmth and food. But that's what his mothers used to tell him whenever he dared to ask.

"We mended and fed you," Eurynome would say, stroking his brow fondly.

"We kept you warm and safe," Thetis would say, brushing his cheek with her lips.

"How can I ever repay you?" Hephaistos always asked.

His mothers just smiled. "You shouldn't think like that," Thetis would say. "That's not how love works."

And they went on teaching him how to wield the hammer and chisel, making him glow happily through the soot on his skin.

* * *

When they arrive the palace of the gods is in pure uproar and utter shambles. With a snort Dionysos brings the bridled donkey to a halt. On their way up Mount Olympos nobody has stopped their small, and strange procession. He puts his hands on his hips, properly surveying the damage. If anyone looked at him they would be appalled at the glee lighting up his fine features.

But nobody notices them at first, for they are all running around like headless chicken: the servants, the maidens, the gods and goddesses. Except three-- one is clearly Hera. She is seated on her obscenely pompous throne made of gold and diamonds. Still stuck and bound to it, she cannot move more than her head. Dried-up riverbeds of tears are streaked down her face. Somebody has heaped lavender in front of her, well-known to ease body and mind.

The other is her rightful husband sitting beside her, clearly at the end of his wits. His head is burrowed in between his fists.

The third is idling apart from the rubble, absently twirling a lock of shining hair. Her thighs are crossed as she watches, bored somehow, as powerful and fierce-looking Ares tries to free his mother from the barely visible shackles. The calm woman is very surely the most beautiful creature Hephaistos has ever laid his eyes upon. It's obvious who she is.

After noticing the small troupe Aphrodite straightens her spine. "We seem to have guests," she says with small wonder in her voice, looking closely at Dionysos, who indicates a small bow, at the donkey, who blares meekly, and at Hephaistos, who has not yet sobered at all. His head is threatening to split in two, blood pounds through his vessels. This so-called _wine_ Dionysos brought with him is dangerous.

Probably just as dangerous as Dionysos himself.

Zeus looks up, and when he recognizes Hephaistos' leader a wave of obvious fondness floods his troubled features. "Greetings, my son," he offers, and the pain Hephaistos feels bursting from his chest down to his useless feet clinging to the donkey's belly almost takes his breath.

Dionysos smile is genuine, yet reserved. "Greetings, father." He nods towards all the others who are silently staring at him-- until a shrieking groan trickles from Hera's lips.

"How _dare_ you-- how dare _both_ of you appear here? Now?" She wheezes. Anger and shame are coloring her cheeks.

Ares pauses from trying to cut the unnatural gossamer and turns towards them. Exertion is still pumping the blood through his warm flesh, the lavender did nothing to soothe him either. Within seconds his focus has shifted and two, three quick strides later he pulls Hephaistos forcefully from the nervous donkey to shove him up against the closest pillar. The forearm pressing against Hephaistos' throat is as thick as his thigh, and swiftly Ares draws the dagger from his shin, pointing its gleaming tip at Hephaistos' eye.

"You. Fucking _worm_ ," Ares hisses, eyes sharp and burning.

A panicked whimper escapes Hephaistos. Beneath his feet is a span of air; his hands are grabbling at the assaulter's arms, which aren't wavering at all.

"Now, wait, wait--" Dionysos hastens, but is brought to a halt by the war god's stare.

"Nobody moves a fucking hair," Ares roars, spittle hitting the face in front of him.

Hephaistos presses his eyes shut and curses. "Please," he tries to force through his crushed windpipe.

"Please," echoes Aphrodite, appearing beside Ares. Gently she touches his arm. And then she laughs, a sound like tiny silver bells in the night; their walls are leaf-thin and expertly embossed. "I'm sure our guest is here to help your mother." Her smile at Hephaistos is a gust of fragrant meadows in late spring: rich and promising. "Aren't you?"

Hephaistos tries to nod, but everything hurts. It's ridiculous, because he feels nothing like a guest at all. His headache has grown tenfold, and the way both Ares and Aphrodite are focusing on nothing but himself makes his blood run hot.

"Of course he will," Ares drawls darkly over his shoulder. "Otherwise I'll kill him." His gaze crawls back, from Hephaistos' brow to his toes and up again. "Slowly. First, I'll hack off your festering legs, piece by piece, and rip out your arms. Then you'll howl and whimper, crying for mercy, and regretting you ever took as much as your first breath." The tip of his dagger draws gently along Hephaistos' jaw. "Then I'll throw your torso into a pit of venomous snakes and relish in your wails as you slowly--"

"Enough!" Zeus has risen and his voice booms through the halls, loud enough to make Ares twitch and blink. Aphrodite clears her throat, and at a click of her tongue Ares throws Hephaistos down. Then they turn towards Zeus.

Hephaistos has crumpled into a heap at the bottom of the pillar, his breath labored like a fish on land. Dionysos rushes towards him, mouthing, "Sorry," and petting his cheeks: "Wasn't expecting that."

Hera glares at them, and Ares, indeed, stays where he is.

Zeus puts his hand over his wife's. "Surely you have returned to help us, to help your Queen?"

Hephaistos wonders about how it would be, being brought up at this court, with a father. And a mother, who is such an impressive being. You wouldn't, in your right mind, choose to oppose her. In the set of her mouth and jaw he recognizes his own features; in the curve of her nose and temples as well. Their kinship cannot be denied.

Dionysos clears his throat and takes a step forward. "Your humble sons appear today in front of you, thankful for the chance to be welcomed."

Ares rolls his eyes. "You're welcome to let me punch your teeth in, ass-licker."

But Dionysos ignores him and helps Hephaistos to get up, even holds his crutch out for him. "Come on," he murmurs in his ear. "You might not get another chance. Seize it." And with that he shoves Hephaistos towards the thrones.

Ares spits in front of him, but Aphrodite suddenly looks very interested. The shawl around her head and shoulders twinkles like stardust.

Eventually he dares to look at Hera. And it's not easy for her either.

"Why," she only grinds out when he stands before her.

Hephaistos takes a deep breath. He marvels that his hands don't shake as he opens the pouch dangling from his belt. They retrieve delicate scissors, fit for needlework, and made of gold. The blades are netted with thousands of tiny diamonds, sharpened like nothing else in this world.

"I want you to tell me where I'm coming from," he says quietly. "I think that's the very least you must do for me."

"That's all?" Her laugh sounds terrible and tired. "You want to know your parentage?"

He nods, waiting. The scissors in his hands are gleaming. The other gods are waiting, too, because this is something between the two of them.

Hera stares at him. "I must say you have grown quite well. This stratagem of yours-- I'm impressed. And the throne is nothing like I've seen before."

"Flattery brings you nowhere," Hephaistos says. "Tell me."

"Thick-headed as well, I see." It takes every ounce of will-power for Hera to continue. "You have no father, I'm your sole parent. You are my son. Just like Pallas Athena has no mother, because she sprang from her father's head. You," she laughs a little. "You sprang from _my_ lap."

They are the centre pieces of this play, the others are circling around them. Their stares are pinning him to where he stands. And yet Hephaistos feels not as elated as he’d expected, hearing Hera's confession. He had to use all his craftsmanship and trickery and he still feels like a splinter in their flesh.

Hephaistos swallows and steps closer. Of course he has heard about the old times, what sons did to their fathers. How they deceived and mutilated them, tales spinning on and on and on: begetting children who deceived and mutilated them in turn.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe he could break this circle?

Hera twitches only a little when his scissors cut the gossamer keeping her on the throne like spider threads. Gasps and murmur arise around them, and he is sure it's Dionysos who even starts clapping.

With some effort he sinks onto his knees and says, "Thank you."

Ten beatings of his heart pass until Hera makes a move, and she is gliding forward to put her palms onto his temple and shoulder. "Thank you," she says as well, and adds quietly: "Forgive me."

He nods and rises again. The cheering gods and goddesses around them are obviously relieved, except Ares, who is fuming silently. Aphrodite is standing beside him, a secret smile adorning her features.

"I believe congratulations are in order," Dionysos shouts over the relief. All eyes turn to him. "There was a prize to be gained. These things don't come for free."

Zeus shakes himself out of his thoughts and with a small sigh he nods, reaching out for Aphrodite. "You are right. We made a promise."

"You cannot be serious!" Ares roars.

"We are _always_ serious," Zeus roars back, then he clears his throat. "We promised our foster daughter's hand to the one who would free the Queen."

Hephaistos' blood runs hot and cold and whips his gaze to Dionysos, who just winks at him, grinning like a hyena.

Diffusing the scent of cinnamon and bedewing the air with balsam, Aphrodite steps down from Zeus' seat towards Hephaistos. Like ore fallen from the skies to be turned into the most extraordinary weapon she glides at his side. He is sure that all the seas have risen and frothed to welcome her, the turmoil a remembrance of the origin of all there is.

"Welcome, husband," she tells him. "I came from above, from the vast, dark places between pinpricks of light. I am here, because Time cut up this Vastness-- and his seed seeped out. I should be terrible to behold, and I'm telling you a secret: I'm existing in spite of everything. The scales were tipped, and hate was overflowing. But I am the reason why they are gently swaying up and down ever since." She puts her hand into his, and he could swear her eyes are of the same colour as Dionysos'.

"Mistress," he manages, "I shall make you a girdle from amber and peacock feathers." And his heart spills over like a viscous flow of molten rock out of a high mountain.

**Author's Note:**

> I became an utter Dionysos fangirl, sorry. 
> 
> Also, Hephaistos definitely got the hots for Ares, just for your information. There is so much potential! :D


End file.
